


Dinner on Mustafar

by salamanderinspace



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Mustafar (Star Wars), POV First Person, Poetry, literary fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 12:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21197990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderinspace/pseuds/salamanderinspace
Summary: When I'm off world, I can picture exactly what I want it to be like, but once I get here, all I can do is follow along.





	Dinner on Mustafar

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "Meet me in Iram" by Sofia Samatar

There are men of principle in each party, Tocqueville says, but no party of principle. This idea is the spark that lights Mustafar, the Volcanic planet, and the Fortress, and the nameless populous.

The salamanders of Mustafar have several problems. First, they lack names. Second, they lack cerebral capacity to produce long term memories. On planets without Paulas or Bills or Peters or Irises, it is difficult to fall in love. A hand-embroidered glove with initials stitched in a thousand tiny threads: this would be ideal. There are many ways to leave marks and count coup. Mustafar has none.

No democracy without signification. There is no signification in Mustafar; the names of places there are No One and Nothing.

"Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave  
My heart into my mouth. I love your majesty  
According to my bond; no more nor less."

\- Cordelia, King Lear

The honest evaluation proffered by Cordelia is not possible on Mustafar. On Mustafar, no one knows the amount to love. Everytime I go there, I see Darth Vader in the same courtyard, and he ignores me with the same earnestness. On the rare occasions he sees me, he tells me not to keep coming here but I can't help it. He wishes I had come to visit him on the Tantive instead but I couldn't go, I tell him. It's too cold in space. I have to wear too many layers. I couldn't do it anymore.

Vader is not at all pleased. I see, he says. He's wearing a magnificent black cape, a body of shadow. Like my father, who is probably still living on Naboo, Vader has presence. The men I surround myself with are always very intimidating.

When I say that the salamanders have no names, I mean that they don't know what to call each other. I try to name them every time I go. Last time it was Yve, Tare, Umie, Gashe. Some names are ethnic and they smell of the spices and dust of other worlds. It is only possible to say them with one's eyes closed.

Fortunately the salamanders answer to their new names, and the sound passes through one's eyelashes.

At the Fortress, Vader sit at his table. As always it is dark, polished, and longer than the number of people who have lived to sit with him. I stand behind the chair to his right. The air smells of burning. Vader orates, demanding and ordering, making his importance incontrovertible. When I am in Mustafar, this makes me smile. This is the life we can have together. I don't know what's burning, but at least it's warm.

Anakin had beautiful hair. This is long before he became hairless and suffering. I want to knit him a hat. How is it possible that I still want to take care of him? Vader stands to dismiss the meeting, waving away the officers like he's brushing the hair from my face.

The officers bounce their voices off one another all the way down the hall. They wear little flat caps with brims. They are prim and proper and prompt because it is good to be an officer. They're smart; they hurry to execute their Lord's orders. The Empire runs like honey, folding over itself. They are sticky with it. Someday they'll call out to the salamanders, "hey, you there!" 

On a planet where salamanders had names, it would be possible to hold dinner parties.

"Dictatorship naturally arises out of democracy, and the most aggravated form of tyranny and slavery out of the most extreme liberty."

\- Plato

An electronic encyclopedia article on Mustafar warns: this article needs attention from an expert in climate science. The article says that historically, Mustafar was a lush world with much vegetation. The article, which could be a mix myth, pop culture assumptions, and politics, alleges that the planet was mined into oblivion. 

According to the article, two stars compete for Mustafar. The planet is torn between their gravity fields, causing massive tidal activity and tectonic shifting. 

The quotation above, from some very ancient and distant philosopher, "Plato," appears in the article, in a section about the planet's history. The translation of the quote is notated to be questionable.

I walk with Darth Vader to his quarters. The windows let in a fierce, red-orange light. Otherwise it's like anywhere. The Fortress, Mustafar, is warm with the ambient heat of the lava fields. I wish it was brighter so I could see the tension in Vader's shoulders. Once, I remember, we were walking side by side at a gala on Coruscant, and as we passed the other Jedi I felt Anakin's hand squeeze mine. One of my aids remarked on it, whispering that there's nothing quite so nice as holding hands with a Jedi.

"But he wears gloves," I'd said.

Translation questionable.

On Mustafar, Vader and I don't understand each other. We don't speak the same language. I sing a song I used to sing in the evenings, about the Prophet of Naboo and the sea. A storming, hostile sea. Vader hesitates. I think he hears me.

It almost doesn't matter that he's taken a new name.

The hyperbaric chamber is three meters across and filled with white light. Vader seats himself inside. A wholesome nutrient feed has been prepared and placed inside the chamber for him to consume. I watch. I'm the only ghost there.

Some days there are other ghosts on Mustafar. Ancient Jedi Masters, locals, Vader's victims, others. This is not of any consequence; business goes on with or without ghosts. I wonder if there is a connection between the unnamed dead and the nameless salamanders. Sometimes after dark I catch sight of a salamander trailing along outside, swimming in the fire. I almost feel I recognize him.

_a mix myth, pop culture assumptions, and politics_

I have a terrible longing to return here more often. I'm full of plans. When I'm off world, I can picture exactly what I want it to be like, but once I get here, all I can do is follow along. I want to take a bowl of pears with me next time--there should be some hanging in the orchards of Naboo this time of year. A bottle of blue milk, too, and perhaps the Balmorran candle. It is said that candles guide the dead. I'm sure that, when I reach Mustafar for the final time, I will know Vader's true name. Perhaps that sounds romantic, but I believe everything has a name that I don't know.


End file.
